


Skin

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Humor, M/M, Police, Police Officer Derek, Romantic Comedy, Secret Relationship, Strippers & Strip Clubs, stripper!Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when a stripper bares more than his skin.</p><p>Falling in love is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

* * *

 

“That kid can’t be legal,” Derek scowled. “He isn’t even a real stripper. Clearly.”

“Oh, c’mon, Deputy, lighten up,” Laura said drunkenly, her arm thrown across his shoulder. “It’s my hen’s night - ”

“Why am I here, again?”

“ - and this is the only stripper we could afford on short notice.”

“You might be breaking the law.”

“He’s legal! I swear. By, um. Something.”

“And how do you know?”

“He’s one of Lydia’s college friends.”

“Lydia Martin is barely legal, herself,” Derek pointed out.

“Exactly! So this guy’s barely legal, too. Emphasis on  _legal_.”

“I worry about the future of your marriage.”

“I worry about the future of your future, brother mine. At this rate, you’re going to die alone. Snarling at poor stripper-boys that way.”

“I’m not snarling - ”

Just then, the stripper threw his track-pants.

Right at Derek’s  _head_.

“Whoops,” he called from across the room and across a few dozen screaming female fans, his thumbs hooked in his boxer shorts. “Sorry to ruin your hairstyle, Sourcop.”

“How does he know I’m a cop?” Derek asked, whipping the track-pants off his head and throwing them on the floor.

“Uh, because you’ve got that Terminator look going on?  _Relax_ , Derek. There’s nothing illegal happening in this joint, except for how illegal it is to be that hot.” Laura jabbed a thumb at the stripper, who was gyrating against a pole in an obscene way, the multicolored lights sliding over his abs.

“He isn’t hot.”

“Says my homosexual brother who’s been sublimating his attraction for other men with his devotion to the law.”

“Laura,” Derek hissed. “Shut.  _Up_.”

“Wow. If you get any deeper in the closet, you’ll end up in Narnia.”

Derek ignored her. He couldn’t help it that he was a cop, and that heteronormativity was par for the course among cops. He cradled his non-alcoholic drink (he wasn’t on duty, but he  _did_  have to get his sister home safely) and watched the ridiculous strip-show, in which the stripper’s clumsiness only seemed to endear him to his fans, especially since he managed to convert his trips and falls into artless ways of falling onto his audience. Derek could see how frequently the brat got groped, only to return to the stage, blushing like an innocent but with his boxer shorts stuffed with cash.

Hypocrite.

Grinding his teeth, Derek looked away, considering ordering a beer, anyway.

Just then, a cheer went up - and Derek chanced a glance back to see -

To see -

The stripper was  _touching_  himself. Sliding a thumb along the cloth-covered line of his dick, slowly, his nipples hardening, his eyes dipping as he watched…

…Derek.

Derek froze.

But then, the moment was over, and the stripper dropped into another one of his obscene splits, managing to pull this one off without the usual awkward mistake. If his eyes glanced back at Derek, it was surely an accident.

Wasn’t it?

Throat dry, Derek  _did_  order a beer - just one - and nursed it for the rest of the night.

*

Finally, it was all over, and Derek was helping a stumbling Laura to his car. He’d almost made it when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he whipped around, eyes narrow, only to see the stripper.

Hovering. Like a nervous schoolboy.

“Um,” the stripper said. “I just, er, I was promised I’d get a ride home.”

“I don’t remember making any promise,” Derek growled, feeling his blood heat with anger. To think that this kid had the  _gall_ , to eye him like that during the strip show, and now to - come on to him? Was that what he was doing?

“Oh, it wasn’t you. It was, um, Lydia? She said that Laura was her friend, and that she’d get me home…”

Shit. Laura was out of it; asking her was out of the question. The kid could be lying. Then again, he might not be. And if he wasn’t, was Derek prepared to let him go home alone at this time of the night, through one of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the city?

“Get in the goddamn car,” Derek muttered, taking note of the fact that the stripper was now respectably dressed in a pair of ordinary torn jeans and a loose white T-shirt. Nothing calculated to reveal or eroticize his body.

“You checkin’ me out, Sourcop?” the stripper asked cheekily, promptly ruining any positive impression Derek might have been forming about him.

“Get. In the goddam. Car.”

“Yes, sir! As you command, sir!” After a ludicrous salute, the kid got in the car, next to the driver’s seat, while Derek manhandled Laura into the back of the car and strapped her in.

“Mmhm,” said Laura, intelligibly.

“Hey, is Laura your sister?” chirped the stripper.

“Yes,” Derek answered shortly, before getting into the front of the car and keying the ignition.

“That’s real nice of you, looking after her like that.”

“She’s the elder one. She looks after me,” Derek said, then blinked, wondering why on earth he’d said that. To a guy who’s name he didn’t even  _know_ , let alone to a stripper that aggravated him.

“Oh.” The kid was silent, for a moment, then said: “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

His name was as bizarre and unconventional as his stripping methodology. “Derek,” replied Derek, because it was good manners, not because he  _wanted_  to.

“Right. Real manly,” said the kid - Stiles - nonsensically. “You’d make a better stripper than me, by the way.”

“I’m a cop,” Derek replied sharply.

“Yeah, but you’ve got… that. All of that,” Stiles gestured at him. “It’s like you’re made of muscle.”

“We’re all made of muscle. And bone. And soft tissue.”

“And  _hard_  tissue, man, you’re like something outta Playgirl. Not that I, er. Read Playgirl. Or anything.”

“Be quiet.”

“Aw, shucks, come on. I have amazing conversational skills.”

“You have an amazing ability to infuriate me.”

“‘Infuriate.’ Heh. I like the way you use words.”

“Be.  _Quiet_.”

But the bastard didn’t stop talking. He jabbered about his dad, about his job (not as a stripper, but as a pizza-delivery boy; apparently, he’d been filling in for a friend named Danny at the strip club), about his college degree (which he’d just started a couple months ago, majoring in criminal law) and his favorite foods (curly fries and Reese’s).

Derek was on the brink of opening the passenger-side door and shoving Stiles right out of the car, but a) murder was illegal and b) his sister probably wouldn’t appreciate her favorite stripper being turned into instant roadkill.

So Derek grit his teeth and bore it, until they got to Stiles’s home, which Stiles directed him to in-between extolling the virtues of filling in as a stripper for his best friend and thereby making enough money to feed himself for a month. 

The apartment building Derek parked in front of was worn and old, with cracked, mossy walls barely visible under flickering tube-lights. No wonder Stiles needed additional income, living in a place like this.

“This is it! Casa del Stiles!”

“Get out,” Derek said, massaging his forehead.

“Not before I get your phone number.”

Derek stared at him. “What?”

“Or a kiss. At least one out of two. It’d be a waste, otherwise.”

“What would be a waste?” And Derek’s heart was abruptly racing - like this was a shootout, not just a guy hitting on him.

“Meeting someone as hot as you and getting nothing out of it. Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski let a hottie get away.”

“So you sleep with everyone you’re attracted to.”

“You  _don’t_? Dude, what’s the point of being attracted to people if you don’t do anything about it?”

“It’s called having principles.”

“Hey, I have principles,” Stiles said resentfully. “Attempting to sleep with beautiful people is one of ’em.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah? Is it kissing time, yet?”

“It’s going-home time. My sister needs to get back, too, and I - ”

Stiles was kissing him.

Just - leaning across the gear-shift and  _kissing_  him, slick-mouthed and hot and deep, and Derek’s hand fisted in Stiles’s shirt, yanking him closer, before he remembered himself and shoved Stiles away.

Stiles looked amazed to have gotten away with it, but that was nothing compared to what Derek felt, having  _let_  it happen to him.

His mouth felt wet and filthy. His pulse was thundering in his ears.

And he was hard. Hard with the knowledge that Stiles would absolutely do more than kiss him, if Derek allowed it - would stick his hand down Derek’s pants and bring Derek off, or maybe go down on his knees and  _suck_  Derek off, luscious and slow and teasing, parting those plush, kiss-swollen lips -

No.

“You were getting out,” Derek said eventually, as Stiles gaped at him.

“You - after a kiss like that, you’re just going to - ”

“I’m going to get my sister back to her place, like I promised, and then I’m going to catch some sleep before I have to go to work. I suggest you do the same.”

“I don’t have any classes tomorrow.”

“Well, I have work.”

“What’s a little sleeplessness, once in a while?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“I’ve  _been_  propositioning you. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Get. Out. Stiles.”

“You and your full-stops,” Stiles grumbled, but got out of the car. He was hard in his jeans; Derek looked away. “I didn’t get your number, but I will. Somehow.”

“Stalking is illegal.”

“You can arrest me anytime, officer,” Stiles leered, and then, with another sloppy salute, he was gone.

Derek sat there, grateful that his sister was too unconscious to have witnessed any of that, and then did what he was supposed to do, and took her home.

 

* * *

**TBC.**


End file.
